Confidence Interval
by Frost Deejn
Summary: The scion of a wealthy New York family is murdered. Goren and Eames uncover a web of deceit and corruption in the charity she ran, a secret double life, and a long list of people with motives to kill the seeming philanthropist.
1. Confounding

Confidence Interval

Disclaimer: I didn't create and don't own Law & Order: Criminal Intent. Please refer all further questions to my attorney, whom I can totally afford (because she's imaginary, and accepts imaginary money).

Chapter 1: Confounding

A white haired portly man with a notable red tint to his stony face looked across his desk in a spacious, expensively decorated office. The nametag on his desk identified him in gold letters as "Pres. Steven Ensor." He frowned severely at the young man standing in front of him. "I don't care how much it costs, Ramiro. My company can't afford the scandal if word of this gets out. And my family can't afford the disgrace! Handle it!"

* * *

A blond, 30-something woman speed-walked through the crowded street, holding her cellphone to her ear. "I don't care what you heard. It's my problem and I'll deal with it. You just make sure the money goes through." She flipped her cellphone closed,dropped it carelessly into her bag, and entered a tall building through glass double-doors with the words "Ensor Foundation" painted across them.

She plastered on a pleasant smile as she greeted a man sitting stiffly on a couch."You must be Mr. Green. We were delighted to get your letter. Let me tell you about the kinds of charitable work we do here."

* * *

"Sir, you can't go in there!" A woman with grey hair in a tight bun followed after a short blond man in a tattered denim jacket.

"She owes me. Where is she?" He looked around a cluttered office. When he didn't see who he was looking for, he put a cigarette between his lips and sucked on it angrily.

"I'm sorry, but you have to leave," the woman said.

"Okay, but tell her if I don't hear from her in twenty-four hours, I'll be paying her a visit."

* * *

"I'm sure she's here. Where else would she be?" Steven Ensor said as he fumbled for the key to a large, upscale red brick house.

"I don't know; where do you think she would go?" asked his companion, a younger man with receding black hair and an inexpensive business suit.

"Mr. Arriola, if you're implying my daughter..."

"I'm not _implying_ anything, Mr. Ensor, but the fact is I haven't seen her or heard from her in two days."

Mr. Ensor unlocked the door, and they entered the lavishly furnished room. "Varina?" he called. "Varina, are you in here?"

"She's not here," Mr. Arriola pointed out.

The older man pointed to a large painting on the wall. "She wouldn't have left without this. It's the last family portrait we had done before her mother passed."

"Check to see if her luggage is still here," Mr. Arriola suggested, sounding skeptical.

He climbed the stairs to his daughter's bedroom. "Varina, are you in there? I'm coming in." He pushed the door open. A choked sound of dismay and disgust escaped his throat.

"What is it?" Mr. Arriola came up behind him. The suppressed anger that had been smoldering in his eyes faded when he caught sight of the bed, where Varina lay, fully clothed, still, with her blond hair pillowed softly around her head. A slight smell of decomposition drifted from the room.

Mr. Ensor closed the door, and the two men stared at each other for a moment. "Call the police," he ordered quietly.

* * *

Detectives Eames and Goren walked into the bedroom through a crowd of uniformed cops and CSU snapping photographs and dusting for prints.

"The Ensors are one of the most influential old-money families in Manhattan," Eames commented. "The Chief of D's wants this solved asap."

"That might not be easy. Money usually comes with enemies."

"But Varina Ensor is probably the lowest priority target in her family. She's young, unmarried, apolitical, not involved in the Ensor real estate empire. She's run the family's charity foundation for the past few years, but it's hard to imagine someone wanting to kill her for that."

Goren stooped down to get a closer look at the body. "Her hands are folded. Her clothes are smooth. And look at her hair."

"Not a strand out of place."

"She's been posed," Goren concluded. "Respectfully. Probably by someone who cared for her. There's no sign of struggle, and no visible injuries."

"Poison?"

"That would be my guess. That also indicates someone close to her. Someone she trusted."

"So now we just need to figure out who wanted Princess Varina of the House of Ensor dead."


	2. Discordant Pairs

Chapter 2: Discordant Pairs

"We're sorry for your loss, Mr. Ensor," Goren said consolingly to the victim's father when they interviewed him in his office.

There was no sign that he had been crying, his face was set in a slight frown, his stance as he sat with his hands folded on his desktop was stoic. "I appreciate the condolences," he said, "but I know that's not why you're here."

"No," Eames confirmed. "Do you know who would want to hurt your daughter? Did she have any enemies."

"None that I know of. She was very wealthy, perhaps it was a theft."

"We didn't find anything missing from her house," Goren said. "Was there anything of particular value that you noticed missing?"

"I didn't notice, but I wasn't acquainted with all of her purchases. Burglary is the only reason I can think of for someone to kill her."

"Did she have a boyfriend?" Eames inquired. "A girlfriend? Any disgruntled investors or business partners?"

"Once again, all I can tell you is that if someone wanted to kill her, I don't know who, and I certainly don't know why."

Goren tilted his head and blinked. "All you can tell us? That's an...interesting way to phrase it, Mr. Ensor."

"How else would I phrase it?"

"Never mind. I understand that Varina had a trust fund. Will that go to you now that she's dead?"

"Yes, and I will be making sure it goes to her charity. It was her life's work. I assure you, I had no motive to kill her, if that's what you're getting at. Certainly not over money."

"What did her charity do?" asked Eames.

"The Ensor Foundation contributes medical supplies and clothing to Third-World refugees and war orphans."

"That sounds like very fulfilling work."

"Varina thought so. Now, if you excuse me, I have arrangements to make."

"Less than a day after finding your daughter dead and you're already back at work," Eames commented. "That's dedication."

"And _that_ is harassment from a New York City detective. Now please, leave me in peace so I can grieve in my own way."

The two detectives left Steven Ensor's office. The hall was lined with closed and labeled doors on one side and a floor-to-ceiling row of windows on the other. Through the windows, the crowded, colorful New York City streets could be seen. Goren watched the people on the sidewalks below.

Eames' blithe, smooth voice cut into his thoughts. "He didn't seem too broken up about his daughter's death."

"Not everyone cries," Goren responded. "He seemed...numb. Like he was purposely trying not to feel it."

"Then he was trying too hard."

* * *

The former vice chairman of the Ensor Foundation was cleaning out his office when the receptionist buzzed him.

"Mr. Arriola," she said, "there are two police officers here to see you."

"Send them in," he instructed.

Eames and Goren walked in. He continued working. "Hi. I'm Thomas Arriola. What can I do for you?"

"I'm Bobby Goren, this is Detective Eames. We just wanted to ask you a few questions about Varina Ensor."

"I had no reason to kill her. We got along fine."

Eames raised an eyebrow at his instant defensiveness. "Do you know anyone who might've had a grudge against her?"

"You know, I saw her almost every day at the office for the past year, but I don't know anything about her personal life. If she had a problem with someone, she didn't share it with me."

"What about...professionally?" Goren inquired.

"Professionally?" Arriola's voice tightened an almost imperceptible level. "Absolutely not. She kept the foundation running smoothly and the donations coming, so I got to do the work I loved, making sure the donations got where they needed to be. I hope someone else steps in to chair the foundation. Those shoes are too big for me."

Goren picked a framed photograph off Arriola's file cabinet. It showed Arriola handing a box of supplies over to a grinning group of men and women dressed in rags. "I see. This picture...was this taken in India?"

"Yes. Bangladeshi refugees. We provided them with food, vitamin supplements, and mosquito netting."

"You look very...fulfilled."

"I love my work."

"You know," Goren put down the photograph and turned toward him. "That's the one thing you've said to us that didn't sound...like a lie."

Arriola shrugged, and focused on a smudge on his desk. "I'm not lying. Believe me or don't."

"Do you mind if we ask, why did you automatically assume we were looking at you for her murder?" Eames added.

"Because with her out of the way, people assume that I'll take over as chairman."

"And you think anyone would be willing to kill to become chairman of a nonprofit organization?" she pressed.

"Stranger things have happened."

"Did you?" Goren asked.

Arriola suddenly looked exasperated. "If I had, do you really think I would tell you? I don't know anything about her murder. Now unless you're going to arrest me, you can show yourselves out."

* * *

The two detectives stopped for lunch on their way back to the office.

"So far I haven't seen a single tear shed for this woman," Eames said between bites of her hamburger. "That's not usually a good sign."

"Mr. Arriola...didn't seem sorry that she was gone," Goren agreed.

"Do you think he did it?"

"I don't know." He poked at his ravioli thoughtfully.

"A lot of money goes through that charity. Where there's money, there's motive."

Goren nodded absently. "What if," he speculated, "Thomas Arriola is exactly what he appears to be: a philanthropist with a conscience...and what if Varina was embezzling from the Foundation?"

"If Arriola found out about it, he might want to take her down before she could take down the charity, and his reputation."

"Exactly. We need to find out if there are any...irregularities in the Ensor Foundation's finances."

"I bet your friend Wally Stevens could help with that."

"Maybe."

Eames' phone rang. She flipped it open. "Eames. Yeah. Okay, thanks." She hung up. "That was Rogers. She wants to see us."

* * *

"COD was benzodiazepine overdose," Dr. Rogers informed them. "My guess would be temazepam, but you'll have to wait for a full tox report to confirm it. Her blood alcohol concentration was point one eight."

"Alcohol and benzodiazepine...could have been suicidal," Goren speculated.

"I doubt that. Her stomach contents included escargot and red wine. Most suicides I come across don't treat themselves to four-star restaurants first."

"Maybe she wanted to go out with a bang," said Eames.

Goren tilted his head as he contemplated the body. "She looked like she'd been posed. I don't think it was suicide."

"Her father could have done that when he found her."

"You said yourself that he didn't seem too upset. Do you really think he would have touched the body?"

"Good point," Eames conceded.

"There was no sign of physical violence," Rogers continued. "However the benzodiazepine got in her system, she wasn't force fed. And I didn't find any undigested pills in her stomach contents, so they may have been ground up and mixed with her food or alcohol."

"Thanks," Goren said. "If you find anything else..."

"I know the drill."

Goren walked out. Eames was about to follow him when Dr. Rogers called her back. "Detective."

"Yeah?"

"Just a heads-up, a memo crossed Ross' desk that mentioned you."

She flinched. "What was it about?"

"He didn't tell me. But it sounded big."

"Bad news?"

"I don't know. I'm sure he'll be talking to you about it soon."

Eames looked concerned when she joined Goren in the hall.

"What was that about?"

She didn't want to worry him until she knew more details. "Nothing," she replied casually. She wasn't sure he believed her, but he didn't press for an explanation.


	3. Null Hypothesis

Spoiler: Season 2 episode "Probability."

Chapter 3: Null Hypothesis

Eames read through a file at her desk. Goren placed a fresh cup of coffee in front of her. Their fingers brushed together briefly as she reached for it.

"Thanks Bobby," she said as she lifted the cut to her lips.

"Find anything?" he inquired.

"Steven Ensor is a busy man," she stated. "And more organized than I'll ever be. He keeps track of every dime in his company, everything tagged and labeled. Which makes me think it's kind of weird that five days ago he diverted sixteen thousand dollars of his discretionary expense account to something described only as 'damage arbitration'."

"That's vague," Goren noted.

"It doesn't fit with his pattern. I'll see what I can do about finding out where the money went."

Captain Ross approached them. "Any progress on the Ensor case?" he asked.

"We're thinking there may be some embezzling going on in the Ensor charity," Eames answered, being careful to avoid implicating the victim until they had more evidence to back up their guess. "Varina might have been killed because she knew about it."

Goren quickly added, "We're just about to go see one of my contacts about it."

"Could you handle that on your own, Goren? I need to borrow Eames."

Goren glanced at Eames, whose brows were scrunched in confusion. "Uh, sure." He gathered up his files and stuffed them in his leather binder. "I'll see you later," he said to his partner.

He had a troubled look on his face as he walked away. Why did Ross want to talk to Eames alone? He had the feeling that it wouldn't be good news for him. But maybe he was just being paranoid. Eames would handle it, whatever it was.

* * *

Goren walked down the halls of the prison flanked by guards. He entered a private room and smiled at the man sitting at the table. "Hi Wally."

The eccentric, soft-spoken criminal didn't look at him directly. "It's been...eleven months and four days since I've heard from you," he said.

"I know. I've had a lot to deal with."

"I understand. I've been doing a lot of reading."

Goren sat down across from Wally. He'd first met the statistics genius who suffered from Asperger syndrome when he and Eames had called him in to help investigate the deaths of several homeless men. They had discovered Wally himself had orchestrated the murders as part of an elaborate insurance scam.

"I thought you might be able to help us with a case."

"Anything I can do," Wally said.

Goren slid a stack of documents across the table. "We're investigating a charity. So far we haven't found any evidence of fraud, but I'd like you to take a look at it."

Wally spread the papers out on the table and looked them over. He rearranged a couple of them. "Yes. Yes. Here." He pointed to two sets of numbers, declarations of contributions from the last two years. "The proportion of cash donations to check and credit card donations changed from...let's see...point one four eight nine in year one to point one seven zero seven in year two. I need a pen."

Goren handed him a pen and a pad of paper.

Wally spoke out loud as he worked out the equation. "If we assume that the change in proportion is coincidental, then we can set the population proportion to zero. To find the z-score, we subtract the proportion of year one and year two and divide it by the square root of the product of p-sub-one and q-sub-one--the proportion multiplied by its complement--over n-sub-one--the total number of donations for year one--plus the product of p-sub-two and q-sub-two over n-sub-two. That comes to a z-score of...negative one point eight four. There is a probability of point zero three that the change happened by chance."

"So...about a three percent chance that there _isn't _something going on?"

"Essentially," he nodded.

Goren hadn't been able to follow all of Wally's analysis, but he trusted his judgment. "What do you think caused the increase?" he asked.

"Cash donations have an assurance of anonymity that credit and checks lack; my guess is that this charity subcontracts to several companies, one or more of which will be illegitimate. A comparison of the supply and service purchases this charity makes to the actual supplies or services they distribute could reveal where the money is ending up, though of course someone in the charity will have to be getting a cut of the profits."

"Money laundering," Goren realized. "Someone is donating money they got illegally to the charity, which is funneling it back to them through a dummy corporation so that the dirty money won't be traced back to them."

"Yes," Wally nodded, glancing at him for a second before casting his eyes down again. "I hope this helps you."

"It does. Thank you, Wally."

"Thank you for asking for my help. It...I'm glad I can do something to help people."


	4. Coefficient

Chapter 4: Coefficient

As usual, Goren was already at his desk when Eames arrived for work the next day. "Morning, Bobby," she said pleasantly.

"I think I figured out what company was involved in the money laundering with the Ensor Foundation," he stated.

Eames smiled and tossed her hair out of her face. "Really? What?"

"It's an advertising agency called Dirksen Delivers, except I can't find it on the internet, and there's no listing for it in the Yellow Pages. And the payment to them is within the amount Wally thinks is being laundered."

"Great. Last night I did some more digging on Steven Ensor's mysteriously disappearing money. He transfered it to three different no-name accounts which were all cashed out within hours of each other. All within legal limits, and nothing directly ties it to our case, but it doesn't smell right."

"So what do you want to do first? Ask Ensor about the money transfer or confront Arriola about the money laundering?"

"We've got more to pressure Arriola with. It won't be hard to convince him we know more about it than we do. Let's start there," she said as she stood up and put a stack of paperwork in her desk.

"By the way, what did Ross want to talk to you about?" Goren asked as he grabbed his jacket on the way to the elevator.

"Nothing important. Just some bureaucratic stuff. So how do we get Arriola to crack?"

"It won't be easy. He's going to want to protect the charity." Goren rubbed his thumb across his lips. "So that's what we attack. We offer him two different...interpretations: one that implicates the charity, and one that implicates Varina." He looked at Eames, who was grinning at him.

"I love it when you talk genius," she said. "So which one do you want to take?"

* * *

"What can I do for you this time?" Thomas Arriola asked the two detectives, looking a little impatient and worried.

"There are a few things we discovered in looking into Varina's murder that we'd like you to clear up," Eames said.

"Like what?"

"Like what she knew about the Ensor Foundation's criminal activities."

"What criminal activities?"

Goren spoke up. "We found...some evidence that someone was using your charity to launder money. Dirksen Delivers. My partner thinks that Varina...was killed because she found out about it. She threatened to expose it."

"You can't be serious."

"Serious as a life sentence. We've already arrested one person involved," she lied smoothly. "As soon as he starts talking, and he will..."

"You don't...you can't believe we were involved in this."

"There is...another possibility," Goren said.

Eames rolled her eyes. "Not this again." She looked at Arriola when she explained, "My partner thinks that the money laundering scheme was being run by Varina using the charity as a cover, and she was killed because someone was trying to protect the charity from _her_."

"Really?" Arriola sounded half curious and half defensive.

"Either way, there's going to be an investigation," Goren said, sounding slightly sympathetic. "Organizations like this don't usually survive that kind of publicity."

Arriola looked down, tapped his fingertips on the desk for a few seconds, then looked back up. "Okay, I'm going to tell you what I think. I suspected Varina was running some kind of scam, but she was my superior and I couldn't confront her. I got a phone call about a week ago that Steven Ensor was doing his own digging to find out exactly what she was up to. He knew about it. He wasn't about to let anyone ruin his name with a scandal like this, especially not his own daughter. When we found her body..." he trailed off.

"When you found her body, what?" Eames pressed.

"All I could think was that Steven Ensor had her killed."


	5. Fractiles

Chapter 5: Fractiles

"Thank you for coming in voluntarily, Mr. Ensor," Eames said to their latest prime suspect.

"I should be thanking you for your discretion in inviting me here," he replied with thinly veiled anger. "I'm a very important man, and it would hurt the organizations I'm involved with if word got out that the NYPD was looking at me in my daughter's murder case."

"We don't think you were involved. Yet," Goren said. "You're very...protective of your reputation, and of the reputation of your businesses, Mr. Ensor?"

"No crime in that."

"So, if someone were using one of your organizations for something illegal, you'd...you'd do something about it. If you knew."

"I'd make sure they were stopped and prosecuted to the full extent of the law."

"Even if it was your own daughter?"

"Was Varina involved in something illegal?" he asked. His feigned ignorance didn't fool anyone.

"If she was," Eames said, "what would you have done about it?"

"Not killed her," he answered flatly.

Eames put a printout of his financial statement in front of him. Goren watched his expression carefully as he slid the page closer to examine.

"Sixteen thousand dollars to 'damage arbitration'. What is that, Mr. Ensor?" Eames interrogated.

"That," he answered smoothly, "is a business expense. Unless you have a masters degree in business management, I don't think it concerns you."

Goren entered the interrogation. "'Damage arbitration'...is the damage...what would have happened if the public found out your daughter was involved in money laundering?"

"Money laundering? What would give you an idea like that?"

"It's called 'police work', and unless you have a degree from the academy, I don't think it concerns you," Eames responded. "What should concern you is that we have reason to believe you wanted Varina out of the way, and evidence," she pointed to the paper in front of him, "that you hired someone to do it."

"I would never hire someone...I would never have anyone killed, especially not my own family."

"Then what was it?" Eames continued, strategically increasing the pressure. "You had to stop her somehow. What would people think if they found out Steven Ensor's daughter was on the wrong side of the law?"

Goren saw a flicker of something in Ensor's eyes, a tiny spark of regret or anger. He couldn't tell what the emotion was exactly, but knew it was something he could chase. He shifted his hand subtly toward Eames to signal her to back off, which she immediately did. "What was your daughter involved in, Steven?" he asked. When the man didn't answer, he continued. "Was it drugs? Alcohol? Gambling? Why did she...take that kind of risk? Push aside...the law and everything you'd ever taught her about morals? Did you ask her? Ask her why she'd agreed to get involved in something like that?"

Ensor dropped his eyes to the surface of the table.

"Why did she do it?" Goren continued. "How could she have done it? In spite of her wealth, and her privilege, she...she broke the law. Well, it must have been some...defect in her upbringing. Some failure in the way she was raised...in the way you raised her."

A sudden sob escaped from the large billionaire's throat. He buried his loose red face in his hands. "I failed her," he said. "I failed her as a father, and it got her killed."

Eames glanced at Goren, wondering if sympathy or chastisement would work better now. Goren answered with a slight tilt of his head toward the suspect. "What did you do to try to help Varina?" Eames inquired softly.

"When I realized she had an illegitimate source of income, I hired a man to follow her, to find out who she was dealing with," Ensor answered tearfully. "Ramiro Herrero. He found out Varina was laundering money for a drug dealer named Justin Dirksen."

"Do you think Dirksen had her killed?"

He shook his head. "I doubt it. She was helping him, cooperating with him. I think what happened is Thomas...when he found out about it...he really believes in the charity. Not like Varina. When we found her body, he had this look in his eyes like he was almost relieved. He killed her. I'm almost sure of it."

* * *

The two detectives walked out of the interrogation room. "So Arriola lays it on Ensor and Ensor lays it on Arriola," Eames complained. "And so far, nothing conclusive ties either of them to the killing. I'm not liking this."

Captain Ross intercepted them. "I hope you have a good reason for dragging one of the city's top businessmen in here. Not to mention a grieving father."

"He's still a suspect in Varina Ensor's Murder," Eames said.

"What evidence do you have that he's involved?"

"Varina's vice chairman implicated him," Goren tried to explain.

"The word of one of your other suspects? As evidence goes, that's pretty unreliable."

"There were some irregularities in Ensor's financial statements that made us think he might have hired a hitman," Eames added.

"Did you find a check with 'for murdering my daughter' on the memo line? Because that's about the strength of evidence you'd need to justify dragging him in here."

"He came voluntarily," Goren said. "And it may have given us another lead."

Ross sighed and nodded. "Fine. Follow up on it in the morning. And Eames, I expect you to apologize to Steven Ensor, and be a little more diplomatic next time."

* * *

It was raining while Goren drove home that night. Something was bothering him, something about Ross's reaction.

The censure for acting without sufficient evidence was nothing new. Ross did that a lot. It seemed like he was always finding something to criticize about his work.

About _his _work. Not Eames. Ross had nothing but admiration and respect and maybe a little bit of pity for Eames. But this time his irritation had been directed toward _her._ What could Eames have done to make Ross upset? More importantly, if something did happen, why hadn't she told him about it?


	6. Correlation

Chapter 6: Correlation

Goren usually came to work earlier than Eames did, and today was no exception. It was a sunny morning, though a little chilly. He was distracted as he approached the doors.

"Hello Detective Goren."

"Good morning, Drew."

Andrew Moynihan had been a security guard at 1PP for as long as Goren had worked there. He'd been a beat cop before that. He went into security after being shot in the leg on the job.

"Hey, why was your partner talking to the Chief of D's a couple of days ago?"

Goren froze. "Um...Eames? Eames talked to the Chief of D's?"

"Yeah. I saw her and Captain Ross talking to him in the elevator on the security camera. I would have thought she'd mention it to you."

"No. Are you sure it was her?"

"Unless we have a new pretty blond female detective who looks just like her. It's strange that she didn't tell you about it."

"We've been busy working on a case. I guess it wasn't important," Goren said. He smiled casually before the elevator doors opened.

It didn't make any sense. If Eames had been talking to the Chief of Detectives, she would have mentioned it to him. Unless they were talking about something she didn't want him to know about.

He had his cellphone out almost before he realized it, and scrolled through his contacts list until he found a number he hadn't dialed in a long time. He impatiently paced the tiny space in the elevator. The call went directly to voice mail. "Hi, it's Bobby Goren," he said. "I know it's been a long time since we've talked, but I need a favor. Do you still work in the Chief of D's office? Call me back when ya get this."

* * *

As Eames drove to Ramiro Herrero's address, she realized Goren hadn't said anything the entire drive. He'd been staring out the window. "Something on you mind?" she inquired.

Goren looked back at her. She sounded so casual, so normal. If there was something going on she was trying to hide from him, wouldn't he notice it? That was what he was good at, as a profiler. Maybe he was wrong. He needed to ask her, but couldn't think of a way to articulate his question. "The case," he lied simply. "Varina is from one of the richest families in the city. She didn't need the money. So why was she doing it?"

"Her income came from family trusts that her father would know about. Maybe she needed money that wouldn't be missed.  
Or maybe she was doing a favor for someone."

"Or rebelling, making a statement," Goren speculated.

They arrived at Herrero's apartment and Eames knocked. A minute later, he opened the door. "Yeah?"

"Hi. I'm Detective Eames from the NYPD; this is Detective Goren. Can we ask you a few questions?"

"Sure. Uh. What do you want to know?"

"Did ya want to talk out in the hall, or can we come in?" Goren asked.

He paused, then shrugged and opened the door the rest of the way, gesturing them inside.

"We know Steven Ensor hired you recently," Eames began.

"Yeah. So?"

"What did he want you to do for him?"

"That's between him and me."

"Mr. Herrero," Goren said, "do you know that Varina is dead?"

He tensed slightly. "I heard about it on the news."

"What did her father hire you to do?"

His eyes widened. "Oh no. Hell no. I didn't kill her. He hired me to find out what she was doing, and who with."

"And did you?" Eames questioned, eyebrows raised.

He hesitated again for several seconds. "A cocaine dealer named Dirksen. He was using Varina to clean his drug money. I followed her until she met with him, then told Mr. Ensor."

"Was that all? You just...you just followed her?"

"When Mr. Ensor found out, he told me to handle Dirksen. So I went to his place and talked to him, roughed him up a bit. I told him if he didn't back off from Varina, there'd be worse things coming."

"Did he?"

"I don't know. A few days later I found out she was dead."

"Can you get us the address where you found Dirksen?" Eames requested.

"Sure, but I don't know if he's still there. It was this hole-in-the-wall office that he used as a cover for his drug dealing. He's probably long gone by now."


	7. Lurking Variable

A/N: I don't know who the new ADA is (Do they even have one anymore? I miss Carver.) so I'm making up my own.

Chapter 7: Lurking Variable

They arrived at the address they got from Ramiro Herrero. It was a small office space squeezed between a bowling alley and a liquor store. The words "Dirksen Delivers" were written in flaking black paint across the window.

"You'd think a successful coke dealer could afford a nicer place," Eames commented as they approached it.

"Inconspicuous," Goren said. "That's what he's going for here."

Eames opened the door, and a short man with tousled sandy blond hair and a cheap suit looked up from his desk. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

"Justin Dirksen?"

"Yeah. That's me," he said.

"A friend recommended your services," Goren said vaguely.

"Really? What friend?"

"Mr. Smith," Eames answered smoothly. "He told us you were reliable."

Dirksen smiled guardedly. "That I am. I guarantee that my advertising services will increase your business measurably in the first week."

"I'm sure they will." Goren took a step closer to the dealer, smiling disarmingly and lowering his voice. "We're interested in the other business you deliver."

"What exactly are you looking for?" he asked.

Goren glanced back at Eames. They had to be careful. If they were too direct, they risked anything they might find here being thrown out in court. That could include any evidence connecting Dirksen to Varina's murder.

Eames tossed her blond hair and smiled at the suspect. "What do you got?" she asked in an almost purring voice.

Dirksen glanced at the window suavely. "Let me show you what's been popular lately." He drew from beneath his desk a small clear bag of what looked like cocaine.

Goren examined it without picking it up, then nodded at Eames.

"Plain sight."

Eames smiled as she pulled out her badge. "You should be more careful about who you deal with, Justin. Your under arrest for possession with intent to distribute."

* * *

Later that evening, Goren and Eames faced Dirksen and his lawyer across the interrogation table.

"This is a clear case of entrapment," said the lawyer, Alyce Kowalski, a fiftyish woman with black-dyed hair and faded freckles dotting her round face. "I can get the drug evidence you recovered thrown out so fast you'll think I was a magician."

"Do that. We've still got your client for murder," Eames said smoothly.

"I didn't hear about a murder charge," Kowalski complained.

"You will. We have enough with the drug charges to keep Mr. Dirksen inside long enough for us to conclusively link him to Varina Ensor."

"Really? Then why did you need the pretext to drag him in in the first place?"

"Wait," Dirksen interrupted her. "I think I can clear this up. I didn't kill Varina."

"Who did kill Varina?" Goren asked him.

"I don't know. But I didn't. She was one of my best customers. Why would I kill her?"

"Mr. Dirksen, I strongly recommend you exercise your right to remain silent," his lawyer hissed.

"And I...recommend that you tell us what you have to say. If you know anything about Varina's murder, you should tell us now. Because, honestly, Justin...it's not looking good for you."

"He's right," Eames chimed in, standing up, walking to the side of the table, and half-sitting on the tables edge so she could look down at the suspect. "Why would you kill her? Maybe because Varina's rich dad found out about you and hired a goon to rough you up."

"I knew that wasn't her. She wouldn't do that to me. I wasn't about to kill her without trying to work it out."

"Is that why you went to the Foundation office and demanded to see her the day she died? Varina's secretary told us about it. She said you didn't seem too happy."

"I...okay, I was mad and wanted to talk to her about it. I wanted to get out before we were both found out and thrown in prison. But she wasn't there, so I left."

"Mr. Dirksen," Kowalski growled warningly.

"So you didn't see her again after you left her office?" Goren asked.

"No. I didn't."

"Then why did we find your prints at her house?" Eames accused.

He froze.

"You didn't," Kowalski stated.

"Yeah," Goren said. "We...we did. On the front window, on the handle of her bedroom door, on her bathroom sink. Didn't your client tell you he'd dropped by Varina's place?"

"Okay," Dirksen nodded. "When I didn't find her at the Foundation, I went to her house. I broke in, okay, but she was already dead. I thought she had a overdose, so yeah, I carried her to her bed and tried to make it look like she'd had a heart attack or something. Then I left, okay?"

"I don't know," Eames said. "It sounds like you can't keep your own story straight. Why should we believe you didn't kill her?"

"I'll prove it, okay? I'll take a lie detector test."

"I'd like a minute with my client alone."

Goren and Eames went to the observation room, where Ross and the new ADA, Henry Lopez, had been watching.

"His attorney must know how easy it is to discredit polygraph results in court," Ross commented.

"Still," said Lopez, "with his fingerprints found at the scene, and his obvious motive, not to mention what he does for a living, there's not much a defense attorney could do to convince a jury to acquit."

"What's your take on him, detectives?"

"Either he's stupid or innocent. I'm not discounting either," Eames said.

Goren frowned slightly. He hadn't gotten a solid read on Dirksen. To be honest, he'd been distracted. "I'd like to know the results of his polygraph, if his lawyer lets him take one."

"Okay," said Ross. He checked his watch. "That can wait until morning. Unless you two want to do some overtime tonight."

"I'd like to get it done as soon as possible, before Dirksen has time to prepare himself for it," Eames said.

Lopez nodded. "I think that would be better than waiting."

"Suit yourself." Ross noticed Goren's hesitant look. "Is something bothering you, detective?"

"No. It's just...I have somewhere to be tonight."

Ross looked surprised. "You have a date?"

Eames turned to stare at her partner with raised eyebrows.

It bothered Goren that no one expected him to have a social life anymore. Besides, a lie would be simpler than the truth. "Yes."

Eames turned toward the window to the interrogation room quickly so the others wouldn't see the look of disappointment on her face. "Good for you, Bobby. Go have fun. I'll tell you the polygraph results tomorrow."

* * *

Goren entered the cafe with his eyes on his watch. He was late, but she would expect that. He looked up and spotted Denise watching him from a table near the window.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he apologized as he took the seat across from her.

"Don't worry about it. It's great to see you, Bobby."

"You too, Denise. You look great. How far along are you?"

"Four months," she replied, patting her swollen stomach proudly. "My husband and I couldn't be happier."

"That's great. Congratulations."

"Thanks. But we're not here for chit-chat. You wanted to know if I've heard anything about the Chief of Detectives meeting with Captain Ross and Detective Eames?"

Goren nodded. "Yeah."

"I couldn't help but wonder, why don't you ask them?"

"Because I want to know why they didn't tell me. You know how curious I am."

"Yeah." She nodded. "There are only a few things I know for sure: the Chief sent a memo to Captain Ross. Captain Stanley Bockman from the 11th Precinct is retiring at the end of the month, and they've been looking at a Major Case detective to replace him. I don't know exactly who, but I can tell you that the day after the memo, Ross called the Chief. I overheard part of the conversation, and they were using a lot of feminine pronouns."

Goren's mouth opened slightly. "Really?"

"None of it will be final until after Captain Bockman officially retires, of course. That's probably why they're not talking about it. There will be a lot of bitterness from people who think they're being passed up. But if you ask me, we could use more women in the top brass."

"That's true," Goren said, trying not to let his shock show.

"I'll call you if I hear anything else."

"Thanks Denise."

After Goren left the cafe, he sat in his car thinking. He shouldn't have been upset. He had thought Eames being partnered with him had destroyed any possibility of career advancement for her, and he should have been happy to be wrong. She would make a great captain. She deserved it.

But he felt like he'd been punched in the gut. She would be leaving him. He would be losing her. He would be alone.

His eyes closed and he leaned his head back. Maybe he could get a transfer to work under her, so he could still be close to her. But it wouldn't be the same. She wouldn't be his partner. Besides, it probably wouldn't work. He'd torpedoed his own career in the past couple of years. It was a miracle he hadn't been fired, it would be hard to get himself transfered.

Intellectually, he knew she was doing what was best for her, but he couldn't help feeling like she was abandoning him. Their partnership had been increasingly strained over the past couple of years, with the death of his mother, revisiting her husband's murder case, and the Tates Correctional Facility fiasco. But he hadn't thought she wanted out.

What was he going to do without her? He'd had trouble dealing with other partners before her, and he'd just gotten worse. Could he work with someone else? No wonder Ross was upset with her: he was losing not just his best detective, but the only person who could keep his most troublesome detective in line.

And it wasn't like he could quit or retire. His work and Eames were all that he had in life, the only things he had going for him.

He could just imagine himself working some case without her, chasing some suspect, making some mistake, getting himself shot. She'd go to his funeral, dressed in her shiny captain's uniform. She'd give the eulogy. That was really the best he had to hope for without her.

He tried to force down the sick feeling, he tried to be happy for her. But it felt like doom.


	8. Residual

Chapter 8: Residual

Eames looked up from reading over the results of Dirksen's polygraph test. "You're late," she commented to Goren. "I take it your date went well."

He cleared his throat. He looked tired. "It was...is that the polygraph results?"

"Yeah. His lawyer is going to try to get the results tossed, but we've got 'im. It says he lied on several questions, including 'Did you kill Varina Ensor?'" Eames smirked. "I wish more suspects would hand us our evidence on a silver platter."

Goren nodded, distracted. "That would...be nice."

Eames looked up at him. "Are you okay, Bobby?"

"Yeah," he responded automatically. "Fine."

"The DA is ready to file on Dirksen," Eames continued, tossing her hair back. "Officers searched his office and house with dogs and found at least fifty-thousand dollars in drugs, and a stash of over twenty thousand in large bills. And we have proof from Dirksen's own security cameras that he met with Varina at least once a week."

"Good."

"It bothers you that we didn't get a confession, doesn't it?" Eames asked.

"It does," he said. And it was true; he was disappointed in himself for not getting Dirksen to confess. But that wasn't the thing that was really bothering him.

"We can't win them all. But Lopez says we got enough on Dirksen to convince any jury."

"Can I see the...polygraph transcript?"

Eames handed him a copy she'd made for him. While he studied Dirksen's responses, Eames made a few phone calls to banks and a forensic accountant about the details of Varina and Dirksen's financial arrangement.

Around noon, the phone on Goren's desk rang. He picked it up quickly. "Goren...What?...Okay." He hung up and looked up at Eames. "That was Lopez. Dirksen's attorney wants to meet with us right away. She says she has something we need to see."

* * *

They met with ADA Lopez and Alyce Kowalski. Lopez looked frustrated, and Kowalski looked smug.

"What is it?" Eames asked in an almost bored-sounding, smooth voice.

"My client has an alibi," Kowalski replied. She held up a highlighted copy of the autopsy report. "Based on time of death, and the amount of benzodiazepine in Varina Ensor's system, she was poisoned at around eight p.m." She then handed both detectives copies of a police report. "During that time, my client was at the corner of 105th and Brenton Boulevard, under observation by the police who suspected he was loitering for the purpose of selling drugs. He was there to meet with a business acquaintance who never showed up. As you can read in their official report, no drugs were observed being sold. However, the photographs should prove this is my client, and there was no way he had time to murder Miss Ensor."

"He could have given her something with the poison in it that she ate or drank later," Eames pointed out.

"Which he just hoped she would actually consume, instead of put aside or give away?"

"I wouldn't put it past your client," she said.

"How did you get this?" Goren inquired.

"When Mr. Dirksen told me where he was during the time of the murder, I took the initiative to find any corroborating evidence. I know that area has a high incidence of drug sales, so I thought police might have had it under surveillance at the time."

"Need I remind you that his polygraph results indicate he killed Varina," Eames countered.

"Need I remind _you_, detective, that polygraphs have false positive rates of up to fifty percent? I'll see to it the jury never even hears about that test. Now, either release my client, or I'll be taking this to a judge."

After Kowalski left, the ADA looked at the two detectives expectantly. "What do you think?" he asked after a moment. "Should I put off filing the charges?"

Goren scrutinized the report. "This looks exculpatory," he admitted. "From her stomach contents, we think Varina was poisoned at a restaurant. It had to be by someone who was there."

"I know one of the cops on this stakeout," Eames commented. "Officer Oaks. I worked with him in Vice. I'll check with him."

"In the meantime," Goren said to Lopez, "can you see what you can do to delay Dirksen being released?"

Lopez's dismayed frown looked unpromising. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Goren flipped through Dirksen's criminal record. He'd been involved with drugs since his teens, but there was no evidence that he was excessively violent.

Eames hung up the phone. "Oaks confirmed they had Dirksen under surveillance during the time of the murder."

"Detectives," Ross approached them. "I just heard that the ADA is delaying filing charges against Justin Dirksen. Am I going to have to call Steven Ensor back to tell him we might not have his daughter's killer after all?"

"Hold off on that," Goren said as though it wasn't a rhetorical question. "Dirksen has a history of...hiring other people to do his dirty work. He may have had an accomplice."

"Any idea who?"

"Not yet. There's no evidence Dirksen's been working with anyone else," Eames responded.

"Dirksen had thousands of dollars hidden away at his house. When word gets out that he's been arrested...and it will...his accomplice might try to recover it and make a get-away before Dirksen can implicate him. We should put his house under surveillance."

"Okay. Eames, make the call. Goren, I want to talk to you in my office."

As Eames picked up the phone, Goren, confused and apprehensive, followed Ross. When the door closed, the Captain turned to face the detective.

"Can you talk some sense into your partner?" he implored.

Goren was even more confused. Eames had the most sense of anyone he knew. "About what?"

"About taking the promotion," he replied like it was obvious. "If you tell her you want her to take it, I think it might make her reconsider. I assured the Chief of D's that she'd jump at the opportunity."

"The promotion...?"

Ross stared at him. "She didn't tell you? The captain of the one-one is retiring, and the Chief of D's wanted Eames to replace him. There are some difficult detectives in that precinct, and she has a lot of experience dealing with difficult detectives. And he's impressed with her solve rate, and how hard she lobbied to keep you from getting fired after the Tates Correctional...incident."

"She...?" Goren shook his head, still confused.

"She didn't tell you about any of that, did she?" Ross asked incredulously.

"No," he answered quietly.

"Figures. She's giving up the chance of a lifetime. She said she can serve the city better here, but I think she's doing it out of some sense of loyalty to you. See if you can talk her out of it. You owe her that much."


	9. Critical Value

Chapter 9: Critical Value

The orange streetlight glowed fuzzily in the night fog. Justin Dirksen's small but well-kept townhouse sat darkened and silent. Cars drove past the residential street, but none of the drivers noticed the small dark car with tinted windows parked just far enough from Dirksen's house to not arouse suspicions. It was after 1 a.m., and there had been no trace of activity. Goren and Eames had been staking out Dirksen's place for about two hours.

"What if we're wrong about Dirksen?" Eames suddenly asked. "What if he didn't have a partner?"

Goren was deep in thought, and it took a moment to register that the silence had been broken.

Eames answered her own question before he could. "It would mean we're looking in entirely the wrong direction for Varina's killer."

"Is there a reason you think it wasn't him?"

"Dirksen wouldn't have volunteered to take the polygraph if he didn't think he could pass it. And his attorney was right about polygraphs not always being accurate."

"Is that all?"

"There are just a lot of questions I want answered. I just feel like there are things about the case that aren't adding up."

Goren didn't say anything. He kept his eyes on the house.

A few minutes later, Eames asked, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"What?"

"You've been distracted the past few days, especially today. Is there something wrong?"

He looked steadily away from her, and allowed the truth to come out of his mouth. "Why didn't you tell me? About the...promotion?"

She looked away and nodded to herself. She wasn't surprised that he knew; it explained how he was acting. "I wasn't trying to hide it from you, I just decided not to take the promotion and didn't think it was important to mention."

"But...a promotion to captain: that's a big deal. Why didn't you take it?"

"I had my reasons," she answered briskly.

"Like what?" he pressed.

She sighed. "To be honest, I was tempted. It would be a great move for my career, and...well...our partnership has been a little rocky lately. It got...complicated...about when your mother died. But I know that would have...Bobby," she said in a tight voice as she looked down at her hands resting on the steering wheel. She was afraid of what would happen to him if he didn't have her to look out for him, to stand up for him. She understood him better than anyone, certainly better than another partner would. He might not last long in the department if she left. But how was she supposed to explain that without sounding condescending? "We've had eight years to learn how to work together. We're good at it. We get our cases solved. I decided not to walk away from that. I couldn't leave you behind." She lifted her head toward him, but kept her eyes downcast. "So I said no."

"But still...why didn't ya tell me?"

"I didn't know what you'd say. I didn't want you to get the idea that I don't think you can take care of yourself."

"But...you would be right," he admitted. "I can't. Not now. I need you. Professionally...and personally."

"And I'll always be here for you. No matter what," she said quietly. "But how was I supposed to tell you that?"

He couldn't answer that. For a moment, he didn't trust himself to say anything at all. "I keep wondering how much better your life would be if you never met me. But mine would be a lot worse. I'm selfish," he determined.

"Can I ask you something?" She didn't wait for permission. "You didn't have a date, did you? You were checking up on me."

He only nodded.

"I think what you don't get," she continued, "is how lucky I am to be your partner, even if I don't always act like it."

They fell silent again, lost in their own thoughts.

Everything Eames had said was true, or at least too close to the truth for comfort. She cared about him. She'd had feelings for him for years. He was brilliant, interesting, charming, cute, eccentric...an acquired taste, yes, but so were many of life's other great pleasures. At first she'd believed he cared more about their work--catching bad guys, solving puzzles--than her, and he'd never risk his job by getting involved with her. She was content to just work with him, be his friend. And then that had started to fall apart, and it hurt her more than he would ever understand. And now, just when they were beginning to rebuild, she couldn't stand to be separated from him, even for a promotion.

Goren's thoughts followed much the same lines. He wanted to encourage her to take the promotion, even if it meant he would have to transfer or retire, but he couldn't bring himself to. He felt guilty for holding her back, but he was afraid that without her he would crumble away. She was witty, tough, sharp, beautiful. Sometimes looking at her or thinking about her sent paroxysms of desire shooting through him. Being so close to someone he couldn't be _with_, not even being able to express to her how he felt...But it was better than not being close to her at all. She had been brightening his life since the moment they met.

"Eames," he said quietly. He loved her name, loved the sound of it. It was smooth and crisp and matter-of-fact, like her. He loved her first name, too: Alex, from the ancient Greek word for 'defend'. That's what she did. Defended the city, the innocent, him. He whispered that name. "Alex."

She looked toward him in surprise. It had been a long time since he'd called her by her first name, and the way he'd said it, so full of...what was that, pain? Shouldn't he have been happy that she was staying? "Bobby, you know I care about you." She took his hand. He inhaled sharply, but still didn't look at her. "Nothing would make me leave you. Nothing they can offer me, nothing they can threaten me with. Nothing you could do. You're stuck with me. Okay?"

"Nothing?" he asked quietly. "Are you sure?"

"Try me."

The invitation was too much. He turned to her, bending his neck and stooping to reach her. He pressed his lips against hers. It was a tremulous, self-apologetic kiss, and he drew away quickly. "Sorry," he said softly.

She smiled, reached up and stroked his cheek. "That was exactly what I was hoping you would do."

Goren looked confused for a moment, but then he allowed his gaze to flutter across her beautiful face. The woman he adored, the only person in the world he trusted, was touching him, smiling at him. It would be difficult to say what needed to be said. "Eames...you mean more to me than anything...but I can't lose you. As a partner."

"I know. We've worked together for eight years. Do you think I haven't thought about this?" When he didn't answer, she asked another question. "Do you want me?"

"Yes," he breathed. "But if anyone finds out..."

"No one has to find out. We're good at acting. Nothing will change with our work. But I want to see you outside of work, Bobby. I care about you more than as just a partner, and that wasn't going to change whether I acted on it or not. It's been getting harder for me to work with you without...accepting that. And I'm guessing by the way you kissed me that you feel about the same way."

"Why me?" he asked. "All the men you could have...why me?"

Her eyebrows arched. "Are you kidding? Are you really that clueless about how amazing you are?" She slid her hand to the back of his head and pulled him in for another kiss--this one deeper and longer--to articulate her opinion of him better than words could.

Goren shifted closer to her. His fingers rose to caress the soft curve of her cheek. A minute later he pulled away, frowning slightly.

"What's wrong?" Eames asked, worried.

"I don't think Dirksen did it."

Her eyebrows rose. She was curious how he had come to that conclusion while he was hopefully occupied with other thoughts, but she never underestimated his ability to multitask. "Why?"

"Well, why would he? He knew Varina's father was on to them, and he might have been worried that he would be exposed and arrested, but he had to realize that killing her would...would make him more exposed."

She agreed with him. She'd been entertaining nagging doubts about Dirksen's guilt since finding out about his alibi, but she played devil's advocate to Goren's musings. "He might not have been thinking about the consequences. He might have just wanted to get back at her for the beating he'd suffered."

"A crime of passion? No. Then he would have killed her himself. And he definitely wouldn't have used poison." He sighed and looked out at the dark, still night. "I think there's something we're missing." He ran his fingers across his lips, thinking. "Her last meal...I don't think Varina was the type to be eating alone."

"She was dining with someone," Eames said, catching on. "And that's the someone who killed her."


	10. Mode

Chapter 10: Mode

Captain Ross was not happy.

Eames had come in late. That wasn't a surprise, since she and Goren had a late-night stakeout, and she always slept later than he did. But that didn't help Ross's mood. "You really mean to tell me nothing happened last night?" he asked as soon as he spotted her.

She glanced at Goren. "If Dirksen had an accomplice, he didn't show. Detective Goren and I are beginning to wonder..."

"If we've got the wrong guy. Yes, Goren told me. Unfortunately, we don't have anything else solid to go on, and I have Steven Ensor knocking down my door trying to find out what happened to his daughter. What am I going to tell him now?"

"That we're looking into other leads," Goren suggested.

"You'd better find those leads soon, Detectives," Ross said before retreating to his office.

Eames sat down and looked across the desks at her partner. "He doesn't look happy."

"He wanted me to talk to you about the promotion. I told him your mind was made up."

"Good," she said. "So where are we on the case?"

"Well, who would know who Varina went to dinner with? Her father, Arriola...maybe no one. We'll have to...ask around."

"There was nothing in her house that indicates she was seeing anyone. Maybe she was meeting with a business partner."

Ross opened his door. "Detectives, will you come in here for a minute?"

The television in his office was on, showing a breaking news broadcast. Steven Ensor stood before a small crowd of reporters. "In light of this," he was saying, "I am offering a million dollar reward for information leading to the capture of my daughter's killer. My family is the most important thing in my life. I loved my daughter Varina very much." A photo of Varina, alive and smiling, appeared on the screen. "And I will devote all of my resources to making sure the murderer who took her away from me is brought to justice. Please call 1-800-555-4160 if you know anything that may lead to a break in the case."

"He thinks that the NYPD has 'mismanaged' the investigation," Ross said.

"At least he'll be the one dealing with the ever-vigilant public," Eames pointed out.

"And making us look bad. I don't think I have to tell you how much I want this case solved, detectives. And I want us to be the ones to solve it."

* * *

"Are you sure that man didn't kill her? The one who came here that afternoon?" asked the Ensor Foundation's receptionist, Mary Brill.

"Justin Dirksen has an alibi for the time of the murder," Eames explained. "Do you know who Varina was planning on having dinner with that night?"

"A prospective contributor. I think I wrote it down." She typed on her computer. "A Mr. Remiel Green. Varina liked to have face-to-face contact with prominent philanthropists, especially young men."

"You didn't tell us about this earlier," Eames said.

"I was sure that man who came here looking for her killed her. I can't imagine why a contributor would."

Eames exchanged a glance with Goren. They were both thinking the same thing: if a contributor found out Varina was skimming from the charity...not many people will kill over something like that, but some would.

"Do you remember what Remiel Green looked like?" Eames asked.

Brill shook her head. "I don't think I ever met him. And I'd never heard of him before."

"Do you have his contact information?"

She looked at the computer, and replied, "No. It looks like he said if he did donate, he wanted to be listed as anonymous. He declined to give his contact information until he made his decision."

"Do you know what restaurant they went to?" Goren asked.

"That was something I would have found out the day after...if Varina had been alive to submit the paperwork."

* * *

"You look thoughtful," Eames observed as they walked out of the Ensor Foundation headquarters.

"I was just thinking...in New York City, it's not that hard to lead a double life. There are so many places to hide, so many ways to avoid leaving a trail."

"Like two NYPD detectives eating dinner at an out-of-the-way restaurant and paying with cash so they don't get caught having an office romance?"

He laughed at her suggestion, but then became more serious. "Whatever Varina Ensor was into...it won't be easy to find out."

Eames nodded. "There wasn't any evidence of it at her house or her office, but with her resources, she could have had an apartment or rented a locker somewhere that no one knew about. So how do we find it?"

He considered this. Because she lived alone, no one would know whether she left regularly. She didn't own a car, and even if she did, she would have ordered a taxi or taken a subway if she was going somewhere and didn't want to leave a paper trail. But if she was living two lives, there should have been _some _evidence in one of the other. "Let's go back to her house. See if there's something we missed."

* * *

"She kept this place clean," Eames commented.

"She probably wasn't here much." Goren looked over a stack of magazines on a lamp table. They were the kinds of magazines she would be expected to have: financial news, celebrity gossip. There was no sign that she actually read any of them.

Eames shook her head. The house seemed clean and organized, but that somehow just added to the impression that it wasn't cared for. There weren't the usual notes on the refrigerator or personal knickknacks on the table. The furniture was expensive, but it was arranged almost haphazardly. "This isn't the house of a happy woman," she opined.

"No. The way she has this set up...this painting on the wall would be worth a few thousand dollars, easy, but you can't even see half of it from the doorway; it's blocked by the lamp."

"She could use an interior decorator."

"Resentful," Goren realized. "She's resentful. Of this place, of her family's wealth."

"Looks like the tv was the only thing in this room she didn't resent," Eames said from the living room. She found the remote and turned on the large flat-screen television. It was tuned to a sports channel. She flipped through Varina's TiVo settings while Goren continued riffling through the victim's belongings.

"Besides the suits she wore to work, she has inexpensive tastes in clothes," Goren noted. "It looks like her favorite books are Westerns and pulp fiction."

"And she really like sports. Her TiVo is full of boxing, wresting, mixed martial arts."

"That's not very ladylike," Goren commented.

"Who is these days?" Eames asked rhetorically, turning off the television. "We should canvass the neighborhood, see what her neighbors knew about her."

Goren nodded. He was still going through Varina's books. He found two on the desk in her home office: one a book on the statistics of gambling, the other a human physiology textbook. "Eames," he called, "I think I know what she was doing." Eames peered in curiously. He held up the books and concluded, "Betting...on sports."

"Maybe she kept it secret because the sports she was betting on are illegal. Judging by her tastes, I bet she'd like caged boxing."

"It's going to be hard to figure out where she went to bet. Anyone involved isn't going to be readily cooperative."

"I'll call some of my contacts in Vice and see if they know anything," Eames said.

Goren nodded, and took one last look around before following Eames out. One thing he could say about Varina Ensor: she was damn good at keeping her secrets.


	11. Odds Against

Chapter 11: Odds Against

The Mata Hari was a notorious strip club in a seedy stretch of the city, a neighborhood Goren was familiar with from his days in Narcotics and Eames from her work in Vice. The interior of the club was dimly lit. Red and yellow lights glowed from the stage area.

"The word on this confidential informant is that if there's anything she doesn't know, she knows how to find out," Eames commented as they made their way through the crowd.

"Is she a pro?" Goren wondered.

"I don't know. My friend in Vice implied it's better not to dig into her personal life."

They sat at the bar, where the informant was supposed to meet them.

"You the cops?"

Goren and Eames turned toward the petite blonde who'd silently taken a seat next to them. She could easily have been a teenager, and she spoke with a vaguely German accent.

"You Luosha Long?" Eames asked.

"Badges?" she countered.

The detectives inconspicuously revealed their badges. She nodded.

"You're not afraid of being seen talking to cops?" Goren wondered.

The girl shook her head. "Half the people here know I'm an informant. I have a lot more to worry about from people outside. What do you want me to find out?"

Eames handed her a photograph of Varina Ensor. "We suspect she may have been involved in illegal gambling, maybe on boxing matches."

Luosha took a look. "I've seen her around, but I don't know her. You'll want to talk to a guy named Ted. Last I heard, the matches are going on Thursday nights in a condemned warehouse just off Bruckner. If you want to check it out I suggest you try not to look like cops."

"Thanks. We'll keep that in mind."

"If there's anything else you need, you know where to find me. I have to get ready for my next dance."

Before she walked away, Goren said something to her in German.

She turned back and scoffed without smiling. "Ever heard of a sheep in wolf's clothing?" she replied before slipping into the crowd.

"What did you say to her?" Eames inquired.

"I asked her why she was here."

* * *

It was nearly midnight by the time they finished work. Eames offered Goren a ride home.

"Are you sure you wouldn't mind? It's late."

"Of course I don't mind, Bobby."

He nodded and walked out with her. They didn't talk for a few minutes. "You okay? You seem...a little nervous," Goren noted.

She'd been trying to think of the best way to ask him something. Now that he'd asked, she let it spill out. "Do you want to come home with me?"

He stared at her, blinked. "Tonight?"

"Yeah."

The truth was, he wanted to accept, but he wasn't sure that would be best. "We have a long day tomorrow."

"We don't have to do anything. It would be faster than me dropping you off at your apartment, and then we can talk about the case on our way in tomorrow morning."

"If we get in together, people will be suspicious."

"Let them be suspicious," she replied. "They can't prove anything more than that we've decided to carpool."

He bit his lip. "Eames...I think maybe you should take the promotion."

She almost slammed on the brakes. "What! Bobby, I thought..."

"Then we can be together. Without breaking department rules."

"Since when did you care about the rules? If you don't think you can both be with me and work with me just say so."

"But that's not it." He sighed. "I just...think you deserve the promotion, and the NYPD should have a captain like you."

She was struck silent for a moment, both exasperated and flattered. "It's already too late. I told Ross I wouldn't take it."

"Maybe you can see if the offer's still open."

"But what about you?"

He tried to smile. "I'll be fine...as long as I have you. But I won't...be with the department forever. And if anyone finds out about us, your career might not recover."

A laugh slipped through her stern countenance. "You want me to have my cake and eat it too?"

"If you want to think about it that way. Just...I want you to think about it."

She took his hand. "Okay," she agreed. "I'll think about it."


	12. Standard Deviation

Chapter 12: Standard Deviation

As soon as Goren and Eames entered Major Case the next morning, Ross came out to talk to them. "You're late, Detective," he commented neutrally to Goren.

"Car trouble," Eames supplied for him. "What's up?"

"I had an urgent memo waiting for me this morning. It was from none other than Steven Ensor. A waitress called his tip line to report seeing Varina and an unknown man at her restaurant the night she died."

"We'll need to question her," Goren said.

"I've already arranged it. She'll be here as soon as she's finished with the sketch artist."

* * *

"They both had the escargot. It didn't look to me like they were on a date, but I overheard the woman say she thought he looked familiar," said the waitress, Lynette Fuentes.

"What do you remember about what they talked about?" Eames asked.

She shook her head slowly. "The woman sounded like she was pitching a business deal. The man would just listen and nod sometimes. I really wasn't paying much attention."

"Did they leave together?"

"Um," she tried to remember. "The woman paid the bill and the tip. The man...I think he was saying something about having to get going. I think he left first. And he didn't have anything to drink. The woman had two glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon, but the man just had water."

Goren asked, "Do you remember anything else? What he was wearing, how he acted? Anything you remember will help."

"No. I'm sorry. He acted a little nervous, though," she added, "but just at first. He was playing with his food. Oh, and he was left-handed."

"Do you remember if Varina left the table during the dinner?" Goren asked.

"Yeah. When I came to top off their water, the man said she went to the ladies' room."

"Thank you."

"So, if you find the guy, can you let Mr. Ensor know I helped you so I can get the reward money?"

"Sure. We'll make sure we do that," Eames said.

When the waitress was escorted out, Eames looked at Goren questioningly, waiting for him to explain what he figured out.

"They both ordered escargot," he commented. "I'm betting he poisoned his own plate and switched them when she left the table. That's why he was playing with his food."

"So we're pretty sure Remiel Green is our killer, but unfortunately we have no idea who Remiel Green is."

"Or what motivated him to kill her," Goren added. "If we find one, we might have the answer to the other."

* * *

A blond woman in a faded and torn denim jacket entered the dimly lit space. She looked around before moving through the gathering. Moments later, a large man in a black outfit entered. His salt-and-pepper scruffy beard and hair were disheveled, making him look slightly unstable.

They didn't draw second glances in this place.

The condemned warehouse was poorly lit. The odors of sweat, blood, alcohol, marijuana, and tobacco mingled with the sounds of fighting and cheering in the crowded air. Though it was hard to tell in the uneven light, there seemed to be at least a hundred people in the room.

The petite woman elbowed her way to the caged fight rink at the center of the room. Three spotlights were trained on the fighters. She didn't flinch as one of the men slammed the other into the side of the cage. The man against the wire, ignoring the cuts digging into his back, grabbed the metal to lift himself up and kicked the first man in the gut.

The large man who had entered the room after the woman stayed back in the shadows. His eyes swept the room, as though looking for someone.

The fight ended with one man knocked unconscious. The woman in the denim jacket glanced around furtively. In the confusion of movement after the victory, the two fighters were carried out of the cage and two new ones took their place.

The fight began with the throwing of a few body punches, then one of the men rushed at the other, who stepped back and caught him in a head lock.

The woman glanced back, as though nervous, and ran her fingers through her hair.

The large man's eyes fixed on her. He suddenly pushed his way through the crowd around the cage, knocking aside anyone who didn't get out of his way. He grabbed the blond woman by the collar of her jacket and forcefully turned her to face him. "What do you think you're doing? What did I tell you about coming here?" he demanded angrily, loud enough to be heard by nearby spectators over the noise of the fight.

She knocked his hand away. "Don't tell me what to do!"

He grabbed her arm and started dragging her back toward the door. The scene they were making was beginning to draw attention away from the actual fight. "I can tell you whatever I want."

She elbowed him and tried to pull away. He twisted her arm and pushed her against the wall.

"Let go of me!" she yelled.

"Hey!"

Without releasing her, the man turned at the exclamation to see a slender, well-dressed bald man between two bodyguards. "What do you want?" he asked gruffly.

"What's going on here?"

"None of your business."

"You're in my place, so that makes it my business," the man replied.

"Fine. We were just leaving." He yanked the woman back and started pushing her toward the door.

She looked over her shoulder. "Get this loser away from me!" She struggled against the man's strong grip.

In the dark of the parking lot outside, he shoved her to the ground. "This is the last time..."

The three men followed them out the door. "I think you should leave," the bald man said.

"We will." The man in the dark suit turned toward him. "But first I want to know something."

"What?"

"Are you Ted?"

The man suddenly looked very confused.

The woman stood and held out a badge. "We're NYPD. I'm Detective Eames, this is Detective Goren. We're not here to shut you down; we just have a few questions."

"I have a few of my own," Ted replied. "How did you find me, and how do I know you won't break up my business if I cooperate?"

"Doesn't matter how we found you, and you'll just have to take our word for it," Eames answered.

Goren took out a photograph of Varina Ensor. "Have you ever seen this woman here?"

Ted flinched when he recognized the dead woman. "That's Brenda. Yes, she's been here. But she was alive the last time I saw her."

"We know," Goren said, putting away the photograph. "When did you last see her?"

"Two weeks ago."

"Do you know of anyone who wanted 'Brenda' dead?" asked Eames.

He hesitated. "A while ago, she was accused of fixing fights."

Eames eyebrows rose. "Accused by whom?"

Ted hesitated again. "She usually bets on this fighter called Rhino. Some of the guys he beat started suggesting she doped him up before his fights."

The detectives exchanged glances. "We'll need to talk to Rhino and the other fighters," Goren said.

"That won't be possible," Ted informed them. "I don't know these men's real names, where they live, or what they do when they're not here. This business depends on anonymity. Now, unless you're going to arrest me, we're done."

"Then we'll arrest you," Eames stated.

"You do that, and in a minute this place will be empty. You'll never get the info you're looking for. Look, here's what I can do: I'll talk to Rhino and try to convince him to meet with you, off the record."

"Not good enough," Goren said. "We have to talk to the people he fought."

"Do you have any idea the shelf life of the typical fighter? Most of those guys are long gone. I'm sorry about what happened to Brenda, but people get hurt in this business. It's just a fact. Now I suggest you leave, for real."

Eames handed him her card. "If we don't hear from you, we can always find you again," she threatened.

* * *

"If she was fixing fights she was giving a lot of people plenty of reason to want her dead," Eames said as they drove away.

"That was probably part of the rush. It wasn't about the money for her, it was the thrill of the fight," Goren said. "Are you okay? I tried not to hurt you when I twisted your arm."

"It's fine," said Eames.

"Are you sure? I didn't mean to push you that hard..."

"Bobby," she smiled in amusement, "don't forget it was my idea to draw Ted out by staging a fight. You played your part just fine."

"Can we just...never do that one again?"

"Fine," Eames said, still smiling at his concern for her. She took his hand. "I'm sorry I put you through that. But I knew how careful you would be. I trust you with my life."

He looked at their hands. He'd been through so much in his life, so much pain and so much loss, it was hard to believe that something good could ever happen to him, something as good as being loved by Eames. "Thank you," he whispered.

She stopped the car in his apartment's parking lot, turned to him, and kissed him. He kissed her back, softly trailing his fingertips across her ckeeks. They didn't stop for a long time.


	13. Skewed

Chapter 13: Skewed

"I hate this case," Ross complained. He sat at his desk, looking at his two top detectives. "So is this guy 'Rhino' involved in Varina Ensor's murder or not?"

"Not. At least not directly," Goren answered.

"We know Varina was getting cocaine from Dirksen, but from her autopsy we know she wasn't using it herself," Eames added. "She could have been getting it to Rhino."

"And what makes you think he or someone else from the fight club wasn't involved in her murder?"

Goren corrected him. "Well, it's possible that it was someone from the fight club. But not a regular. She said she thought the man she met for dinner looked familiar..."

"Remiel Green, you mean?"

"Right. It's possible that it was someone she'd seen before, but not someone she saw a lot."

"And she was at the fight club almost every week, as near as we can figure," said Eames. "So she probably knew all of the regulars at least well enough to recognize them."

"Fine," Ross sighed. "So if we don't know his real name, where he's from, or what he does, how are you going to find this guy?"

"We have a description of him from the waitress and Varina's receptionist," Eames pointed out.

"Right: white male in his twenties or thirties, brown hair, average height, average build. What are the odds?"

* * *

"He's right," Eames reluctantly admitted as they walked out of Ross's office. "We still don't have much to go on."

"We have motive, which is more than we started with."

"We have motives in spades."

"The fight club was anonymous," Goren said quietly, as if just realizing the fact.

Eames turned to him. "Meaning?"

"That if the killer met her there...how did he know who she was? How did he find her?"

"Don't tell me you're starting to doubt the fight club had anything to do with the murder after all..."

"No. I think it does. I think the killer was like her. Someone from her world."

"Another bored trust fund baby looking for a little adrenalin rush?" she asked, catching on.

"It would explain how he convinced Varina he was a wealthy philanthropist. He knew how to play the part."

"But still, how does that help us? Are we going to read through the society pages looking for anyone matching Remiel Green's description?"

He rubbed his lips. "We might be able to narrow it down. He's young, he's...active. He could be an athlete."

Minutes later they were both at their computers, searching through headlines about New York socialites involved in sports.

Eames phone rang, and she answered it quickly, grateful for a distraction from what was proving to be an exercise in futility. "Eames..." Her eyes widened and she grabbed her pen and notepad. "When and where?" She scribbled something down. "We'll be there. Thank you." She hung up and met Goren's curious eyes. "That was our friend Ted. Rhino agreed to meet with us."


	14. Scatterplot

Chapter 14: Scatterplot

At a dive bar called Billy's on Fifth, Goren and Eames waited for their contact. In his brief call to Eames, Ted claimed that if they waited, Rhino would find them. They had been waiting almost half an hour.

Billy's on Fifth was unapologetically low-class. The floor was dirty concrete, the wood at the bar was scuffed and stained and sported a variety of graffiti scratched into its flaking beige paint. What little of the walls were visible between the posters and fliers were an uninspired shade of off-white, or at least had been before years of cigarette smoke had given it a yellow-brown tinge. The bar was almost deserted, and had been for the entire time they'd been there.

A wiry young man with close-cropped light brown hair and a matching shadow of a beard walked in. He looked around, then made his way to them. "You the cops Ted told me about?"

"That's us," Eames confirmed.

"Not what you're expecting?" he asked after he sat down and noticed Eames looking him over curiously. "I get that a lot. People think with a name like Rhino I'd be bigger, but in the cage it helps to be small. Makes you a harder target to hit."

"Did Ted tell you what we want to ask you about?" Goren inquired.

"Only that it had to do with Brenda. And that he doesn't think you'll arrest me if I tell you what I know."

"We're investigating a woman's murder," said Eames. "Things like illegal fights and drug use are a little below our radar."

Rhino nodded, and spoke in a near-whisper. "Brenda used to slip me coke before matches. She said it would give me an edge, make things more exciting."

"Did anyone find out about it?" Eames questioned.

"People talked. Some of the guys I beat said that was the reason."

"Did someone threaten you?"

"Some people complained to Ted, but this ain't the Big Leagues. Anyone would do whatever it takes. That's just the game, you know?"

"That's right," Goren mumbled. "People get hurt. Isn't that what Ted said?" He'd glanced briefly at Eames as he spoke, then looked back at Rhino. "Did...has anyone died as a result of the fights?"

They could see Rhino withdrawing his cooperation. He would admit to drugs, but this line of questioning could get him and Ted in real trouble. "No. Of course not."

"Has anyone been seriously injured?" Eames asked.

"You know," Rhino stood up, "I've told you everything I know about Brenda. I didn't even know her real name. I don't think I can help you." He left quickly.

Eames sighed in frustration. "We're not going to have another shot at him."

"We might not need one," Goren said.

She raised her eyebrow. "You want to clue me in?"

"He feels guilty. I think someone either died or got hurt from a fight. We need emergency room records."

"That sounds like a long shot. How many people do you think get admitted to emergency rooms in New York City on any given Thursday night?"

"A lot," Goren conceded.

She sighed, then stood up. "So I guess we better go get started."

And that was why he loved her, he reflected.

* * *

After hours of pouring over emergency room records and newspapers, Eames and Goren had a list of thirty-eight people who fit what they knew and guessed about the killer. They made a chart of their driver's license photos and took them to the Ensor Foundation's vice chairman, the receptionist, the waitress who'd seen Varina the night she died, and the confidential informant from the strip club. Thomas Arriola didn't recognize any of the men. The receptionist, Mary Brill, picked out one of the pictures as a prospective donor she'd met once, but she didn't remember if it was the man who called himself Remiel Green. The waitress, Lynette Fuentes, said one of them could have been the man Varina had dinner with. The stripper, Luosha, took a copy of the photographs to show around, and reported back that one of them had been identified as a fighter called Arwoc who had stopped coming to the matches months ago.

All three had indicated the same photograph.

"David Preston," Eames read. "Claimed he was injured in horse-riding accident, the first Thursday of last November. Three broken ribs, five missing teeth, a broken nose, and a concussion."

"That doesn't really sound like a horse-riding accident."

Eames nodded. "He's the twenty-seven-year-old grandson of publishing magnate Phineas Preston."

"Definitely fits the bill for upper-crust killer."

"But even if he is our guy, how are we gonna question him? If he's guilty, he'll lawyer up the second he thinks we're on to him. And we just have your psychological profile and some circumstantial witness statements linking him to the victim. We've got no evidence connecting him to the crime at all."

Goren sat back thoughtfully. "What if he thought we did?"

"I don't know." A smile formed on her face; she could almost see a plan brewing in Goren's mind. "What?"

"Right now, David Preston thinks he got away with murder. If we convince him we have proof that he killed her, he's gonna panic. And if he thinks he's cornered, he'll confess."

"If he's our guy," Eames reminded him. "And if he's not our guy, we're back to a suspect list of nada."

Goren nodded. "So we have to make sure we do this right."

"'Cause we've only got one shot."


	15. Payoff Odds

Chapter 15: Payoff Odds

As the days went by, David Preston grew increasingly convinced that he had, in fact, gotten away with murder. His apprehension was beginning to give way to relief.

He didn't feel very guilty.

He understood Varina Ensor's drive to get as far away from the shallowness of high society as she possibly could--after all, he shared it. He'd recognized her the first time he saw her at the fight club. He was glad she hadn't recognized him. She wasn't like him. Fighting had been everything to him, the only thing that made him feel alive, that made him feel real, and when he woke up in the hospital and the doctors explained to him the extent of his injuries--that his body would never be the same--it made him want to die.

It was while he was recovering that he decided Varina was the one who deserved to die. She was a coward, betting on the matches without putting herself in danger, doping up her fighter.

No, he didn't feel guilty about killing her. It helped that he hadn't watched her die, just watched her eat the poison and then left. It didn't even feel like murder, it felt like gambling: maybe the poison would kill her, maybe it wouldn't. It was in Fate's hands. Appropriate end to her life, he thought. It wasn't until he heard about her death on the news that he began to worry. What if he was caught? He'd spend the rest of his life in prison. He had thought, when he was planning her murder, that that was a price he'd be willing to pay. But then he kept noticing the things he could still do. The little things. The walks in the park, the waiting in line at the coffee shop, the singing in the shower--things he wouldn't have in prison. He'd started to wish he'd never killed Varina.

But then days and weeks passed, and the cops never came, and he was sure he'd gotten away with it.

Still, each time the doorbell rang he was afraid it was the police, come to confront him with what he'd done.

This time was no exception.

He peered through the peephole and saw a large man with salt-and-pepper hair and a petite blond woman. They looked like cops. Behind them were four uniformed police officers and a short young man in a dark suit who looked like a lawyer.

David's heart started thumping. At first he pretended he wasn't home. But after about a minute, there was a knock on the door, followed by the ringing of the doorbell again a few seconds later.

"We know you're in there, Preston. Come out with your hands up," a woman's voice commanded sternly.

David looked up a phone number in his address book, then dialed it.

_"You've reached the law firm of Durning and Kuhn. How can we be of service?"_ asked a pleasant voice on the phone.

"This is David Preston. I need to talk to Mr. Durning, _now_," David replied in a harsh whisper.

"_One moment..._"

The pounding on the door continued. "You're surrounded, David." This time it was a man's voice. "The only way we can help you is if you turn yourself in."

"_This is Gerald Durning."_

"Mr. Durning. This is David Preston."

"_Mr. Preston. What's wrong_?"

"I'm about to get arrested."

"_Arrested? For what?"_

David swallowed. "Murder," he answered, "I think."

"_Mr. Preston, listen carefully, I want you to go with them but don't say anything. Understand? Do you know where they're taking you?_"

"No."

"_Call me when you find out. I'll get there as soon as I can. I can't emphasize this enough: do not tell them anything! Do not answer any of their questions, do not accept anything to eat or drink, do not volunteer anything, no matter what they say to you._"

"You've got ten seconds to open this door, and then we're coming in," the woman yelled.

David opened the door. "Okay. What's this about?" he asked, trying to sound innocent.

"You know exactly what this is about," Eames said. "You murdering Varina Ensor."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I didn't even know her."

"You don't have to know someone to hate them enough to kill them, Mr. Preston. Or should we call you Remiel Green?" Goren said.

"Or maybe you prefer Arwoc," Eames added. "Whatever you want to go by, you're coming with us. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney--which I highly doubt--one will be provided for you. Do you understand your rights?"

He didn't say anything.

"I guess you're going with your right to remain silent," she said before turning to the uniformed officers. "Get him to the car."

One of them took David by the arm and directed him toward a waiting police car.

"Nice job, Detective Eames," ADA Lopez said. "This is going to be one of the easiest convictions of my career."

"Poor shmuck," one of the police officers whispered to another just loud enough for David to overhear. "The guy doesn't stand a chance."

David was pushed into the back of the car. Eames got behind the wheel, and the ADA sat next to her in the front passenger seat. Goren got in the back next to David. They started driving away.

"You know what this reminds me of?" Lopez said to Eames. "Remember the Fabian case last year?"

"Yeah." Eames chuckled. "Took the jury three minutes to give the guy life."

"It was two minutes and forty-one seconds," Lopez corrected her.

"I'd like to be a fly on the wall for this jury."

They both laughed.

Goren leaned toward David and whispered, "You know, I know a few good defense attorneys. I can get you a number..."

"No thanks. I've got a lawyer. He's going to meet us at your station."

Goren nodded. "Hard break, Major Case. Killing Varina got a lot of the top Brass worked up. There's a lot of pressure to throw the book at you."

David's lips tightened. His hands were shaking.

"You know you don't have to say anything, right?" Goren whispered even more quietly.

"Yeah."

"Well, if you don't talk now, it's going to go even worse for you at the trial. Our ADA will have the jury convinced you not saying anything now is an admission of guilt."

He took a deep breath, shaking his head.

Goren glanced nervously at the two people in the front of the car, who were still chatting about old cases. His voice dropped to a level barely audible even to David. "I get what you did. Varina was into some bad stuff. Drug dealing, money laundering, game fixing. It was only a matter of time before someone put a stop to it. Sorry it had to be you."

"I didn't kill her," David claimed.

Goren smiled condescendingly. "You didn't hide your trail as well as you thought. Did you really think they wouldn't trace the meds used to poison her back to you? What made you think no one in that restaurant would recognize you?"

"Well...there are a million guys in the city who look like me."

Goren shook his head. "The ADA went through all that with the Grand Jury. There are about eight and a half million people in the city. Half of them are women--actually a little more than half--so that leaves about four million. The guy seen poisoning Varina's food at the restaurant was white, and only thirty-five percent of New Yorkers are white, so that leaves about one and a half million. But thirty-six percent of New York's population is foreign-born, and the waitress distinctly remembered you having an American accent. That brings the possible IDs down to about nine hundred thousand. But witnesses said you were left handed. Only nine percent of people are left handed. You're left handed." Goren pointed at the watch on David's right wrist.

David's left hand reflexively covered his watch. "So?"

"So that brings the number down to eighty thousand. You have brown hair. That's the most common hair color for white men. The ADA estimated about two thirds of men have that hair color. He said that was a generous estimate. That makes about fifty thousand, let's say. The witnesses described the killer as late twenties, which is, I think he said, about one-tenth of the population. Once again, generous. Five thousand. Still a lot. They said the killer was about five foot nine or ten, which is just about average height for a white American male. The empirical rule of statistics says that for things with a normal distribution, like height, about sixty-eight percent of data values will be within one standard deviation of the mean. In other words, about sixty-eight percent will be close to the average. That eliminates anyone who's not average height, which will be about thirty-two percent of people. That still only brings it down to about thirty-six hundred. You're also...you're fit, athletic, just like the killer. Sixty-four percent of American adults are overweight. That brings the killer down to about one in a thousand. But he had access to temazepam...enough to give Varina a fatal overdose. You were prescribed it for your insomnia after your...injuries last November. A little bit...poetic, killing her with a drug that you were taking because of the trauma she caused you. It's not a common drug, either to prescribe or to sell on the black market. So, adding access to temazepam to the list of the killer's attributes...it pretty much brings us to a list of one. You."

David was frowning. His eyebrows were furled and quivering.

"And then...taking everything we knew about the killer, we took a picture of you and thirty-seven other people resembling you and showed them to three people who had seen the killer. Only three people. It's not a large sample size, but the results were statistically significant. You see, they all picked the same picture. Yours. Do you know what the chances of that being a random coincidence are?"

"No," David said.

"The chance of choosing any one picture at random is one out of thirty-eight, about two point six percent. Of two people choosing the same random photograph, it's a probability of point zero two six multiplied by point zero two six. That's about zero point zero seven percent. Three different people choosing your photo out of that line-up? There's no jury in the world who will believe that's a coincidence. I've been a cop for a couple of decades, and I've never seen a case this solid. Trust me, David, you don't want this going to trial, 'cause you're gonna get life."

The suspect knocked on the division between him and the two people in the front seat. "Hey. I want to make a deal."

ADA Lopez looked back. "Varina's father isn't going to be happy if we don't give you the maximum sentence. What do you have to offer in exchange for a deal?" he asked, sounding disinterested.

"I can...make a full confession, tell you why and how I killed Varina. I don't know, what do you want?"

"How about, you make a full confession, and I'll make sure you get the possibility of parole," he replied.

They arrived at One Police Plaza. As soon as they got out of the car, Eames put David Preston in handcuffs. "And now you're under arrest."

A look of pure confusion passed over his face. "I wasn't before?"

"I don't remember ever saying you were. We didn't have enough to arrest you before, but now we've got a confession."

"What? But...all that stuff that he was saying to me. He said you already knew it was me." It dawned on him just how badly he'd been misled. "You couldn't talk to me without my lawyer present. This doesn't count."

"You had the right to remain silent," Eames said, "and a right to have a lawyer present for questioning, but Detective Goren wasn't questioning you, he was just talking, and you chose to talk back."

"You called your lawyer before you even opened the door, that tells us that you understood your rights," Lopez added. "Your confession will hold up in court. But the deal's still on the table."

For a long moment, David stood in mute shock, then his uniformed escorts took him inside.

ADA Lopez smiled at the two detectives. "That was an extremely fine line to walk, legally, but he gave an affirmative answer when you asked if he understood his right to remain silent, so the confession will be admissible. Congratulations."

"We couldn't have done it without you," Eames said.

"We needed him convinced that we didn't need the confession," Goren added. "You and Eames both played your roles perfectly. Everyone did."

"But you're the one who really sold it," Lopez said. "Very impressive work." He turned and followed the suspect inside.

Eames chuckled softly. "You almost had _me _sold with those numbers you were spouting. Did you get those from Wally?"

"Some of them," Goren answered. "But any statistician or good defense attorney would tear them apart on the stand. The important thing is Preston believed them enough to confess."

"I guess no one ever told him that ninety-nine percent of statistics are made up on the spot."

"Well, like Mark Twain said," he commented, "there are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies," the corner of his lips flickered in the hint of a mischievous smile as he bent his head toward her, "and statistics."

* * *

Goren was sitting at a park bench after work. Eames joined him. "I talked to Lopez," she said. "David Preston's pleading guilty for a reduced sentence."

"Good."

"And I talked to Ross."

He looked up at her, tensing for whatever news she was about to deliver. He could tell from her tone of voice that she wasn't sure how he would take it.

"The One-One is going with an internal promotion, Detective Isabel Cavanagh. A good cop, I've heard."

Goren nodded, looking down at the sidewalk. "I'm sorry you didn't get the promotion."

She took the seat next to him. "I'm not."

He smiled, but still didn't meet her eyes. "You'd make a great captain."

"Maybe someday. But for now, everything I want is right here."

He gazed at her now, mirroring the fondness in her eyes. "Yeah."

The End


End file.
